by B C Bell
“Crank, don’t you think it’s a little early in the morning?” Mac said, appearing in the doorway behind him.
Crankshaft’s eyes rolled up in his head, his eyebrows went beyond that. He started to shake and wondered if he was going to have a stroke before he stopped and said, “Yes, I do,” and poured himself another.
Mac took the bottle away when Crankshaft sat it down. Crankshaft downed the shot and collapsed into the chair behind his desk. He put his head in his hands and pulled his hair straight up in the air, where it stayed. “Why are you digging that big hole on my car lot?”
“Don’t you see, Crank? It’s gonna be a secret hideout!”
Crankshaft reached for the bottle as Mac held it out in the air away from him.
“‘A secret hideout?’ Well, that’s just great, Mac. You want me to build you a tree house next? A fort? Maybe we can put a jungle gym up on the north side of the lot for you and the other kids, too. While we’re at it, let’s just close down the garage and build an amusement park—maybe a mini-rodeo with ponies and a Ferris wheel—”
“C’mon Crank, it’s a great idea. We’ve been trying to figure out where we could hide the Blue Streak and this is perfect.” Two weeks ago Mac had stolen a 1933 Graham Blue Streak Eight from the mob. “Besides it’ll give you a better place to work when it’s raining…”
It took a half hour, and another shot of whiskey, for Mac to talk him into it.
“Now I appreciate you helping me pay off the mortgage on my house, but we are in no way partners,” Crankshaft said, shrugging on another pair of coveralls. “I’ll give you twenty per cent of all profit off the garage until you’re paid back. But you have to give me fifty per cent of the Bagman take—if you’re going to use my lot. Meanwhile, I’m not going to have a lot of use for you around here, so maybe you ought to look into that little cigar store you want to open.”
“You gotta deal,” Mac said. He neglected to mention that he wasn’t expecting to make a profit from his new double identity, but rather use the money to fund his fight against crime. “You know, Crank, every good hero needs a secret hideout.”
“Is there some kind of guide book I don’t know about out there or something? Because I’m beginning to think you’ve seriously lost your mind.”
“I haven’t lost my mind. Think about it. The Lone Ranger’s got a secret canyon. This new pulp guy, Doc Savage, has some kind of fortress of solitude, whatever that is—”
“It’s what I used to have before you showed up.”
“Even The Shadow has this secret warehouse—”
“So why don’t you just rent a warehouse?”
“I’d have to get another alias fixed up, fake license—” Mac gestured behind him, “—besides, I already started digging this hole.”
Crankshaft shook his head and started to mutter again. He picked up a bucket of tools and headed over to the other side of the shack where the cars to be serviced were parked. “Has it ever occurred to you that none of those people are real?”
“Jules Verne wrote about submarines before they were real.”
“Yeah, and H. G. Wells writes about men on mars. Doesn’t mean I’m going to open a rocket repair shop. Hey, speaking of big machines, where’d you get that bulldozer again?”
“Corner of Wabash and Jefferson.”
“And you just drove it on over here.”
“No, no, it was on a trailer. Got a buddy of mine to haul it over,” Mac said.
“So you stole it?”
“No, Crank. I just borrowed it. We’ll tow it back tonight. Put it right back where it was. They’ll never know it was gone.”
“So that makes it all right?”
“Hey, it was just sitting there on a trailer, waiting for somebody to haul it away. Town like this, they should know somebody’s going to take it.”
“So it’s OK because they’re not using it?”
“Not today, they aren’t.”
After Mac finished digging, he had to run out and buy another tarp to hide the bulldozer under. He then began his new role as Official Car Repair Gopher by coming back with coffee and hot dogs. Crankshaft still wanted him out of his hair and told him so. Mac didn’t take such things personally and said he’d be back around five.
“Five?” Crankshaft said.
“Yeah, Hunts Helms is coming over to drop off the concrete forms so we can pour tomorrow.”
“Oh… I don’t suppose you filled out paperwork with the city for any of this?”
“Crank, it’s a secret. Besides, who do ya think Hunts borrowed the concrete forms from?”
“Oh.”
“Hey, come back around six and we’ll go out somewhere to eat. Wear a tie,” Mac said.
By six o’clock the whole north side of the lot was covered with concrete forms, small metal frames to be organized in the bottom of the hole and on the sides. Both floor and walls would be solid concrete. When Crankshaft arrived he suggested leaving several gaps in the sides, one for an escape hatch and several others in case they needed secret compartments or an extra tunnel.
“That’s getting into the spirit of things, old man,” Mac said.
“Spirit, hell. I just don’t want to get caught.” Crank loosened his tie, pushed his hat back and headed for the shack.
Hunts Helms was walking back and forth with Mac, unloading the forms. “Hey, Mac—that’s Crankshaft?”
“Yeah?”
“Hey, don’t worry about it. We’re still going out tonight. It just kind of took me by surprise. I didn’t expect him to be a nig—” Hunts couldn’t finish the sentence because Mac was poking him in the throat with a shovel handle.
“Yeah, and you’re a Kraut, Hunts. You told me yourself your dad added an ‘S’ to his name so it wouldn’t sound so much like the Kaiser’s. Now, hmmm…” Mac stood, sarcastically rubbing his chin with one hand, “…Let me see… Who’s caused us more trouble?”
Hunts started to answer, but Mac held up the shovel. “And by ‘us’ I could mean the Scotch, or the Irish—but what I mean is Americans, Hunts. Don’t you get it? We’re all foreigners here.” Mac tossed the shovel onto a pile of dirt, and they started to walk up to the shack. “’Sides, Crank hasn’t ever done me anything but right. Saved my butt more than once—so you don’t bring up any problems with him, and I won’t bring up any with you.”
Hunts stopped for a second, glancing down at his chest, not really sure if his problem was being part-German or part-criminal. Once they were in the shack Mac and Hunts washed up in the slop sink and changed into clean shirts and ties, while Crankshaft sat with his feet up on the desk. Soon, the three of them were joking, smoking and having a drink.
Then Mac said, “Straighten those hats and ties, boys. Tonight, we’re going to The Green Mill Gardens!”
“You buying?” Crankshaft said, amazed.
“Oh no, my friend. Or did you forget—Hunts works for the city.”
Chapter II
A Dance with Death
The Green Mill Gardens on the corner of Lawrence and Broadway was a very respectable place in 1933. Since Al Capone had been jailed, it had to be—or at least the beer garden on the corner had to be. Especially since prohibition hadn’t been legally repealed yet, and everybody in Chicago knew The Green Mill was Capone’s joint. So, to the masses, The Mill was the place to go on the North Side if you wanted a nice steak and some jazz.
Now if you wanted a steak as thick as your fist, a drink that would melt the hair off your chest, and some swinging, hot jazz—you had go in back. And if you were a guest of somebody who worked for the city? Well, you got in for free.
“It’s good to have friends in low places,” Mac said, walking through the entrance.
The doorman gave Crankshaft a dirty look. Crankshaft gave it back.
For the next hour-and-a-half Mac, Crankshaft, and Hunts were treated like kings. Steaks, beer, and burlesque that made the offerings to the patrons of the garden outside seem miniscule.
“So what is it exactly you do for the city?” Crankshaft asked Hunts as they finished their meal.
“Public Relations.”
“What, you welcome guests? Keep the sidewalks clean?”
“No, Mr...? Crankshaft?”
“Jones.” Crankshaft washed down the last of his steak with a draft of beer. “Crankshaft is fine, though.”
“What I do, Mr. Jones, is write news stories that say ‘we’re keeping the sidewalks clean.’ Talk about ‘what a wonderful job the mayor is doing,’ and how ‘prosperity is right around the corner.’”
“Yeah,” Crankshaft said. “It’s been hiding there a couple years now.”
“Oh, but it is right around the corner,” Hunts smiled sarcastically. “And it’s my job to let the people know that. Meanwhile, I get to hang around the cream of society, and remain employed only as long as the next administration thinks I can do better for them. It’s like being a newspaperman who always looks on the bright side of things.”
“Doesn’t sound like an easy job for an honest man.”
“That’s why I’m so good at it, Mr. Jones.” Hunts clinked glasses with the ace mechanic and waved a hand at the bartender for another round.
A New York torch singer, Coco Blue, was the opening act, and entertained the crowd with songs that seemed to drift on the smoke of the after dinner cigars, dulcet tones that caressed all twelve bars of the blues emanating from the ivory keyboards.
“OK, kids, I’m going to have to go hit the blackjack table,” Mac announced ten minutes later. Hunts got up to go with him.
“I think I’ll just stay here awhile and listen,” Crankshaft said, continuing to make dreamy eyes at the dusky lady.
Stage side,a black man in a white tuxedo did a double take when he saw Crankshaft in the crowd. He stood straight up, instantly visible except for the fact that the crowd was enraptured by Miss Blue. He was obviously one of the orchestra musicians due up next. He held drumsticks in his hand, and when their eyes met, Crankshaft’s head moved backward on his neck, staying level, as if he were stunned for just a moment—a sight rarely seen. He grimaced at first. Then a smile began to crack at the edge of his mouth. The drummer waved him over. Other than the gray hair at Crankshaft’s temples the two men could have been twins.
Crankshaft waved the drummer over. They met halfway, the drummer pulling the mechanic back toward the wall out of view.
“Antoine? You must be doing well. This is the last place I ever expected to see you,” the drummer said.
“How are you, Henry?”
“Oh, I’m not Henry Jones anymore, haven’t you heard? I’m Sticks Stone! The man with the tricks—” he twirled the drumsticks in his hand, “—the hits—and it’s all in the wrists!”
Crankshaft raised his eyebrows with a bland expression on his face. “How’s Mom?”
“Oh, she ain’t so happy since I been bustin’ skins.” He twirled the sticks again. “I think she kind of misses you.”
“That’s good, tell her maybe someday, I’ll sneak back in and visit.”
“I said ‘kind of.’ Now me, I got no problem with anything you done. Hell, you done good, got out the neighborhood. Listen, I got to go on,” he motioned at the stage behind his back with the sticks before spinning them again. “Hang around, we’ll talk.”
“Yeah, you go ‘slap jibe on the doghouse.’” Crankshaft said in an almost distant monotone.
Henry the drummer laughed at the mechanic’s use of swing vernacular, and walked back toward the stage, still spinning his sticks.
Crankshaft was amazed to find that an hour had passed when Coco Blue finally exited the stage. The announcer stepped down and the trance that had fallen over the room dissipated with the entrance of the band leader and his orchestra taking their seats. Crank wondered if it was the music or his brother that left him feeling blue.
Mac and Hunts walked directly in front of him, laughing as they exited the gaming room.
“Crank, I’m two hundred dollars up,” Mac said. “You pick the game. I will win it for you.”
“Yeah, great.” Crankshaft still had that empty look on his face.
Mac threw his arm over the mechanic’s shoulder. “Cheer up, old man. Have a drink.”
“Yeah, it’s on the city,” Hunts said. “And I hear the band coming up is better than Cab Calloway. They got this drummer, Sticks Stone—he does tricks, plays the set without sitting down.”
“Sounds good.” Crankshaft sidled away from the two men. “Listen, I have to get some air. I’ll be right back.”
The emcee walked to the announcer’s microphone, leaning the stand back and holding the square part of it in the palm of his hand like a radio announcer. “And now… Ladies and gentlemen! All the way from New York! The hottest swing in town! Buzz Clark and the Jitterbugs!” The crowd applauded. “With Mr. Sticks Stone!” The crowd went wild, and a joyous uproar was raised as a drum roll gradually sped, and then slowed, into a hot four-four time. The lights went up on Buzz Clark, smiling as always, with his clarinet in hand. A second light swept up on Sticks Stone, who was standing and dancing as he kept one foot in place, stomping the bass drum pedal. A series of rim shots hit on the snare, ringing opposite the low tones of the upright bass. Then the brass section blasted out two notes in a rhythm, repeated them, and the crowd swarmed onto the dance floor.
Mac was looking around for a dance partner, a girl he could swing over his shoulders—when a dissonant crack splintered the air, completely out of sync with the band. The crowd didn’t seem to recognize it at first. But Mac did.
Gunfire.
He flipped the table next to him on its side. Plates and food flew onto the dance floor, as the people seated there stared wide-eyed at Mac. He was pulling his revolver out of his shoulder holster before they heard the sound of cymbals and instruments crashing to the floor. Hunts kneeled down next to Mac, reaching for a derringer in his leg holster. The two of them looked at each other once, and didn’t say a word.
Glancing over the table’s edge, Mac could see Sticks Stone collapsed over the top of the drum kit. The crowd was on the verge of panic, some screaming, some making for the exits. Men on the club’s staff stood at the doors with guns drawn. Everybody in the crowd was looking for the shooter, trying to either run away or shoot back.
“He’s backstage!” Mac yelled, and hopped over the table. “Cover me.”
Hunts looked down at his tiny, two shot .22 as Mac was already barreling over the orchestra seating. Mac knocked down chairs on both sides of him as he went careening into the stage’s rear curtain, expecting to tear right through and come out on the other side. Instead, the heavy curtain folded around him, trapping him inside until he swung out backstage and slid down onto the floor. Burlesque girls and performers were running into the kitchen, the gaming room, and at least two visible exits. No telling which way the shooter ran. An old instinct pulled at Mac’s gut. He was thinking like a thief.
It was common knowledge that there was more than one secret exit out of Capone’s old hideaway. The shooter could know about all of them and Mac didn’t. If somebody backstage hadn’t nailed this guy already—he was gone.
Mac climbed the curtain back up onstage. Hunts was already there, checking the dead man’s pulse. Mac pushed him out of the way, trying to look as official as possible. He pulled his wallet out and flipped it open, revealing his “official” Tom Mix Straight Shooters membership badge. It was enough to k
eep the staff, and the paid-off cops, a proper distance away until the real cops showed up. Mac began to search the dead man’s pockets like the thief he had once been.
Hunts looked up at him like he was robbing the corpse. “That kind of thing can get ya haunted, Mac. Them kinda’ profits are cursed.”
Mac whispered over the din of the dealers and bartenders as liquor and gaming tables disappeared into the walls. “I’m not robbing him. I’m trying to figure out where he’s been, who shot him.”
“Why?”
“Never mind. Just tell me if any real cops come in, OK?” Mac took a look at the drummer’s driver’s license and put it back in the wallet with the money. Then he took everything else out of the man’s pockets, leaving the cops the musician’s jewelry and some cigar coupons. He slipped out behind the backstage curtain. Hunts headed to the side of the stage to use the stairs.
***
Miss Coco Blue had been standing next to the open stage door, behind the club, smoking a cigarette and staring up into the stars.
“Excuse me, Miss. Are you all right?” Crankshaft said from several feet away. “You look like you’re missing somebody.”
“I miss a lot of people,” she said. “Some I never even met.”
“I see… Is this one of those ‘waiting for the proverbial knight in white armor’ kind of things?”
“Something like that, I s’pose.” Coco blew smoke out of perfect, cupid bow lips. “I really don’t care what color his armor is.”
“Don’t worry, your secrets safe with me. I’m a stable boy in seersucker.”
The torch-singer laughed, quietly, from the back of her throat. It wasn’t the giggle of a little girl, but it wasn’t derisive either.
